


High For This

by dinglehoppersaplenty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Frottage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, because Stoned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:11:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4878109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinglehoppersaplenty/pseuds/dinglehoppersaplenty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan has encountered lots of different types of people during his pizza delivery days, but none that he likes as much as he likes Tyler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High For This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexenglish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/gifts).



> this basically came about when i was like "what if dylan was a pizza delivery boy and tyler ordered pizza when he's stoned all the time?" and then i was like "what if tyler smoked him down instead of giving him a tip one time?" and then this happened
> 
> also there's not nearly enough shotgunning o'brosey in this fandom so i decided to provide

“Hey Dyl! Got an order for you!”

Dylan looks up from his phone, wasting time and lounging by his car before they close, to see Ki Hong jogging out of the store, one of their red warming bags in his hands. Even without seeing the ticket, Dylan knows where it’s going.

It’s only confirmed when Ki Hong holds a fist out for bumping as he offers the bag. “It’s that guy again.”

Dylan rolls his eyes, but knocks their knuckles together anyway. “Shut up, dude,” he says, just for posterity, as he opens his passenger door and settles the bag in the seat.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, eh?” Ki Hong says, waggling his eyebrows as he begins walking backwards towards the storefront.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dylan says, waving him off as he makes his way to the driver’s side of his car.

Ki Hong has been teasing him about Tyler for about a month now, but Dylan knows it’s meant to be vaguely supportive. By this point, almost the whole staff seems to know that Dylan has a favorite customer, and he knows he’s given them good reason for it. Even Dylan’s _mom_ has heard about Tyler by now.

Tyler is just a really cool dude, okay?

The first time Dylan delivered to him, it had been the first week of the summer. Ten minutes before close on a slow, hot Tuesday night, an order for a large supreme pizza, an order of breadsticks, and a two-liter of Mountain Dew came in for a house at the very edge of their delivery area.

Dylan was given the go-ahead to just head home after delivering it, but he could have _been_ home already by the time the order was even ready. By the time he found the place and had gone up the four flights of stairs, he was sweaty and tired and half-tempted to offer to shove the order up this Tyler guy’s ass.

But then the Tyler guy had opened the door, and, well. He didn’t look like the entitled frat boy Dylan had been imagining, that was for sure. Sure, he maybe looked a little bit like a frat boy, what with the backwards snapback and the board shorts, but. He was shorter, his skin darker, his eyes warmer. He had a crooked jaw and dark hair pushed back under the snapback and tattoos on his arms and practically a sleeve of them on one of his legs. He’d given Dylan a warm grin, and Dylan hadn’t really been able to resist when the guy had said, “Come on in, man, let me find my wallet.”

The apartment wasn’t very big, just a one bedroom thing, but Dylan had immediately liked it. Tyler had comfy-looking couches in front of his big-ass TV, for one, and—

 _Dogs_.

There were two of them, a medium-sized mutt with German Shepard coloring and a smaller white one with curly hair, that both came to investigate Stiles and the warm bag in his hands. “Hey cuties,” he said with a grin, bending down to offer his hand for sniffing. The white one licked at it, while the bigger one started nosing at the bag. “Hey now,” he said, moving the bag away.

Just then Tyler came back into the room, waving his wallet. “Here we go!” Dylan froze—the white one was still licking him—because some people were weird about their dogs and strangers. But Tyler just laughed as he drew closer. “How much was it again?”

“Uhhh…” Dylan straightened back up, checking the ticket again. “Twenty-five fifty.”

Tyler nodded in acknowledgement, already flicking through the bills in his wallet. “C’mon guys,” he said to the dogs, drawing closer and waving a gentle, haphazard foot in the dogs’ general direction, “leave him alone.”

“No, they’re fine,” Dylan said quickly, and Tyler stopped, grinning as he glanced up from his wallet.

“The white one is Chica,” he said, nodding to her, “and the one trying to get into your pizza bag is Roxy.”

“Hey!” Dylan said sharply, pulling the bag out of reach, but she didn’t look guilty at all, just looked up at him with her mouth open and her tail wagging.

Tyler laughed, coming closer with the money. “She’s harmless. Master crust thief, though.”

Dylan couldn’t help but smile back as Tyler slapped a twenty, a five, and two quarters into Dylan’s palm. His heart immediately dropped, because if this guy was a shitty tipper—

He didn’t even have time to finish the thought before Tyler slapped down another five and then three more ones, “for dealing with me right before close.” Dylan raised his eyebrows—he can appreciate a guy who appreciates a food service worker’s plight—and then grinned and dug into the bag for the food.

Tyler immediately dug into the breadsticks, making growling sounds as he tore one off and stuffed half of it into his mouth. He groaned exaggeratedly, making Dylan laugh, and really, Dylan’s first sign that this was going to be a thing should have been when he thought Tyler’s answering smile—wide and filled with bread—was cute.

He left with a smile on his face, thinking he’d tell Holland about the cute guy with the dogs who was nice to him and that would be that.

But then Tyler kept ordering from them.

He doesn’t always order the same thing, but he always does it around the same time, within the half hour before they close so he’s almost always Dylan’s last order of the night. He’s up to at least two or three times a week now.

Tonight the order is hot wings and a large pepperoni pizza. No drink, which mean Tyler’s pairing it with beer instead of soda. He tries not think about how he knows that as he knocks on the door to Tyler’s apartment.

“Dylan!” Tyler says with enthusiasm as he opens the door, smiling so wide his eyes are just slits, the corners wrinkling and dimples on full display. He’s wearing his old blink-182 shirt again, faded black and worn and so thin it looks like a tight grip would rip it to shreds. (It’s Dylan’s favorite shirt that he’s seen Tyler wear.) His shaggy hair is a bit damp, and he smells like he just got out of the shower. Dylan smiles back at him helplessly. “Hey man!”

“Hey dude,” he says, stepping inside as Tyler retreats to find his wallet. He never seems to leave it in the same place twice, which Dylan would probably find annoying if it were any other person. He’s actually enlisted Dylan’s help with finding it a few times; one night they tore the couch apart before Tyler had realized it was in his back pocket.

“How’s it going?” Dylan asks, resting the food on the back of the nearest couch. He reaches down to pet Chica, who’s taken up half the couch, and she pants and wags her tail at him as he rubs her belly. Roxy, who had been curled up in the squishy armchair on the other side of the room, pokes her head up at the smell of food.

“Good, good,” Tyler responds a bit distractedly, looking around the living room. Dylan pets Roxy when she wanders over, deciding to give Tyler about fifteen seconds before he tells him that his wallet’s on the coffee table. It’s next to his computer, a bottle of beer and what looks like a freshly packed bowl. The place already smells pretty strongly of weed, and there’s something animated paused on the TV. Dylan opens his mouth ask what it is when Tyler shouts “Aha!” and springs on the wallet.

He quickly pulls out enough for the tab, but Dylan knows something is wrong when Tyler frowns and starts recounting the bills in his hands. “Shit,” he says, and he looks so guilty when he looks up at Dylan. “Fuck, dude, I forgot to—I don’t have enough for tip.”

Dylan blinks for a second, because not only Tyler has been one of the most consistent tippers he’s ever had, but he’s also been generous, almost overly so. He’s basically how Dylan was able to save up so quickly to buy a new cymbal for his kit. Dylan’s not sure if it’s because he’s usually stoned and therefore can’t do math as well, or if it’s because he’s just a nice guy. (Probably both.)

Either way, “It’s totally okay dude. You usually give me more than enough, really, it’s fine.” Even if it wasn’t, he’d probably say anything for Tyler to stop looking so guilty.

“Nah, dude, I make you come out here late all the time, and I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate it.” Honestly, Dylan would be hard-pressed not to feel appreciated by Tyler. Beyond the tipping, he’s always very vocal about thanking Dylan for coming out. But then Tyler’s eyes land on his pipe, and he looks back at Dylan with a grin. “Let me smoke you down?”

Dylan gapes for a moment.

Smoking weed isn’t any kind of secret, of course, between them; Tyler has left enough of his paraphernalia out often enough when Dylan’s come delivering, and sometimes their conversations have turned to weed so Tyler knows that Dylan partakes on a semi-regular basis as well. He’s well aware that most of the time Tyler is at least half-baked, and if he wasn’t on the job every time they interacted, Dylan would be too. Hell, there’s been once or twice that Dylan  _was_ stoned, even on the job, because it helps the extra slow nights go by much faster.

He’s just pretty sure this makes Tyler his soulmate.

He’s basically down to smoke with anyone, always, but  _Tyler?_ He has to refrain from pumping his fist into the air. “Sure, dude, works for me,” he says instead, and decides it’s worth it just for the way Tyler smiles at him.

After that, it’s all too easy to shoot Ki Hong a text that he’s just gonna head home from delivery, take off his shoes, and plop down next to Chica on the couch while Tyler grabs a beer for him. It gives him a moment to panic quietly about how potentially awful this could go, because Dylan isn’t nearly as interesting or cool as he pretends to be, and he really _really_ wants Tyler to think he’s like. A cool person. He doesn’t think he would be here if Tyler thought he was completely awful though, so.

By the time Ki Hong texts back— _good luck bro! ;) ;) ;)_ —he’s managed to talk himself down, and the message is encouraging. It’s enough that he can smile up at Tyler when he comes into the room and sets a fresh Corona down on the table. He sits down next to Dylan, folding his legs into the space left between Dylan and the arm of the couch—Chica having taken up more than her fair share, and neither of them having the heart to make her get down—and Dylan can feel the heat of his body across the small space between them.

“Make yourself useful, pizza boy,” he says, nudging Dylan with his arm, making eyes at the pizza still perched on the back of the couch.

Dylan laughs, reaching over the dog for the food as Tyler leans forward, reaching for the pipe on the table. When they both settle back, they’re even closer than they’d been before, his leg pressing a solid line against Dylan’s. He sits, pizza warm in his lap, feeling his heart racing a bit as Tyler leans back, offering the pipe and a pink lighter. “Trade you,” he says with a waggle of his eyebrows.

He laughs, unable to help it, and takes the bowl while Tyler descends on the food.

“So what’re you watching?” Dylan asks once he’s exhaled, offering the bowl back to Tyler. He doesn’t seem to have registered the question, having already dug into the wings. His fingers are sticky, his face splotched with sauce, and Dylan may or may not want to kiss the conflicted look off his face as Tyler looks between his messy hands and the bowl. Instead, Dylan offers a solution. “Let me,” he says, holding the pipe up closer to Tyler’s mouth, and Tyler grins.

“I knew you were a good dude,” he says, wiping at his face with the back of his hands. When he juts his chin out, closer to the pipe, there’s still a dab of sauce on his cheek, but Dylan doesn’t tell him.

It takes a second to figure out how to light it with his other hand, and he ends up pressing even more against Tyler’s warmth, but it’s not like he’s  _complaining_  about that. The shirt is just as soft as he remembers. Tyler takes a deep hit, cheeks hollowing and chest expanding, and he blows the smoke upwards when he exhales, grinning.

Dylan mostly tries not to think too much about how he’s putting his lips where Tyler’s lips just were as he takes his hit. It’s still cherried when he exhales, so Tyler doesn’t have as much time to wipe his mouth and misses a spot at the corner of his mouth.

Dylan tastes hot sauce when he takes his next hit.

He chokes a bit as he exhales, and Tyler grabs his wrist, sticky fingers and all. “You okay dude?”

Coughing around smoke, his throat burning and eyes watering, Dylan waves him off. “Yeah man,” he says, his voice strained. He coughs again, vaguely offering the pipe in Tyler’s direction. Tyler takes it with his sticky fingers, and Dylan leans forward to swipe his beer off the table and take a long swig. The carbonation doesn’t exactly soothe his throat, but he no longer feels like coughing, so he considers it a win.

“You sure you’re okay?” Tyler asks.

Dylan nods, looking down at his arm, where there are smears of hot sauce. “Just hit it too hard, I think.” His voice is still a bit rough, but Tyler seems to believe him, since he hears the snick of a lighter and a strong inhale.

It’s just—awfully hard not to think about how much he  _likes_  Tyler. How much he really wants to kiss Tyler. Repeatedly. Even when he’s got hot sauce lips. It was one thing to just consider him a favorite customer, maybe even a friend, but he’d realized it was something else entirely a week or two ago.

When Tyler had opened the door, a literal cloud of smoke had drifted out. He’d been wearing a damn snapback again (and yeah, Dylan wore them too sometimes, but he never looked as good as Tyler did in them, it wasn’t  _fair_ ) and the same shirt he was wearing tonight. His eyes were half-lidded and bloodshot, and the smile that crossed his face was slow to form, but bright. He hadn’t even said hello, just blurted, “You’re my favorite person in the whole world.”

Dylan froze. Sure, they were kind of friends in a weird way, considering they usually ended up talking for a bit before Dylan left. (Once Holland had texted him when he wasn’t back in over an hour, just to make sure he was still alive.) There had been a few times Tyler had hugged him briefly or called “Love you man! You’re the best!” as he shut the door behind Dylan, but this was—something else.

Like, sure, he always smiles when he sees Dylan on the other side of the door, and Dylan is ridiculous enough to have compared it to the sun bursting through a cloud or something once, but  _this_ —this was Tyler looking at him like he was the best thing he’d ever seen, his voice earnest, sincere, near reverential. Thismade Dylan’s stomach squirm, pleased and nervous all at once, made his face grow hot and his hands a bit sweaty.  _This_  made Dylan want to kiss the living daylights out of him.

Dylan’s default response was to laugh, offering the food in his hands, and Tyler just grinned beatifically as he took it from Dylan and went to find his wallet.

After stepping inside and shutting the door behind him, Dylan had taken a second to just breathe and try not to panic. It hit him like a sledgehammer when he’d realized he liked the idea of being Tyler’s favorite person—even if it was just because he was bearing pizza—because Tyler was  _his_  favorite person. That he wanted to _kiss_.

Tyler came back waving a small stack of bills. “Here,” he said, shoving what was mostly ones and a few fives into Dylan’s hands. “Keep the change.”

Dylan didn’t bother to count it right then, wanting more than anything to get out so he could freak out about this by himself. (It wasn’t until he got home with it that he realized Tyler had tipped him over ten bucks.) But then—shit,  _then_  Tyler pulled him into a hug, like a real, long, legit hug that almost made Dylan uncomfortable at first, but then he’d given into it, because Tyler was warm and gave great fucking hugs and that shirt really  _was_  as soft as it looked and Dylan was pretty sure he could stay there for like, ever.

Dylan  _really really_  wanted to kiss him then.

But he didn’t, because he was an  _idiot_ , probably, but also because Tyler always made him smile, even when he’d had a shit night with shit customers, and he didn’t want to screw that up. He just laughed nervously and awkwardly patted Tyler’s back before heading back down to his car.

Tyler never said anything about it, what he’d said or Dylan’s weirdness or the hug or anything, had acted like nothing was different, so Dylan had chalked it up to just—Tyler being Tyler (albeit a completely baked Tyler) and left it alone. Ignored the urge whenever Tyler did something that made Dylan wanna kiss him. It’s been working so far. Mostly.

Wordlessly, Tyler offers the bowl back to Dylan. After sticking the beer bottle between his legs, he takes it, fingers catching on the sticky residue Tyler’s left behind. He tastes hot sauce again, but at least this time he manages not to choke.

*

A few hours later, Dylan is more stoned than he’s been in a  _long_  time.

He hadn’t meant to, but like. Tyler had kept packing bowls and lighting them and passing them to Dylan, and when he’d started on the third one Dylan had started making noises about needing to go home at _some_ point, Tyler had offered his couch, and—well, now here they are. It’s gotta be pushing four a.m., but Dylan’s not sure what happened to his phone and doesn’t feel like moving to look for it. It had been like, almost three the last time he’d looked though, when they’d gotten back from taking the dogs for a walk.

His tongue is thick in his mouth, head too heavy to lift from the couch cushion. He’s on his back, arms over his head and loosely curled over the arm of the couch, one leg still on the ground, the other thrown into Tyler’s lap. He likes the way his chest feels when it expands with his breaths, so he’s trying to keep them deep and even.

He wants to say that he’s sleepy, but even though everything feels like moving through syrup, his eyes lazy with their focus, he’s mostly just— _aware_.

Aware of the music, and the way it’s winding through his eardrums, buzzing into his brain. They've been just listening to music for a while now, and whatever playlist or radio station Tyler picked has been perfect, really. Dylan had already had ideas that Tyler had good music taste, but this has only just proven it. He’s only recognized like half the songs, but he’s  _liked_  every single one.

He's aware of every part of his body that Tyler’s touching. The heat of Tyler’s body under his leg, the weight of Tyler’s hand on his knee. He keeps drumming his fingers on Dylan’s knee, singing along when he’s really feeling the song.

Aware that he’s never been so comfortable around another person like he is with Tyler. With other people, especially strangers, he’s usually an anxious, babbling mess, cracking jokes that fall flat or just generally vibrating out of his skin with anxiety over whether they like him or not. But with Tyler, most of that just…falls away.

Some of it is because Tyler doesn’t seem to have any concept of personal space, and is constantly all over Dylan (much to his dismay, because it really doesn’t help with the not kissing him thing.) But a lot of it is that Tyler is just so laid-back and easy-going that it’s impossible not to be just as chill. He’s excitable, sure, and has tons of opinions to share, but is also a pretty good listener; he even let Dylan prattle on about baseball for a while, even though he has no real interest in the sport at all. The best part is how he’s totally cool with not talking at all. Dylan’s pretty sure they haven’t spoken in like, twenty minutes, and it hasn’t felt awkward at any point.

He is also very  _very_  aware of how this crush has only gotten worse because of tonight. But it’s not his fault, okay, it’s just—

Tyler’s got this thing, right, where even though he’s basically one of the funniest people Dylan’s ever met, and he finds himself laughing at almost everything Tyler says or does,  _Tyler_  seems to think everything that comes out of Dylan’s mouth is like, pure gold. Even when the joke is actually pretty lame, and Dylan is almost ashamed to be saying it out loud, Tyler always seems to think they’re the funniest things he’s ever heard. Dylan can always feel himself blushing but he always ends up smiling helplessly back anyway. And like, so what if it makes Dylan try to be funnier, specifically to make Tyler laugh? He’s just—really cute when he’s laughing at Dylan’s jokes, okay?

Maybe he's a little too aware right now.

As the current song fades out, Tyler moves. Dylan makes a noise of protest, not fond of all the movement suddenly happening. He looks without moving his head, and past the curves of his own cheekbones and the shapeless blob of his nose, he sees that Tyler has his pipe and his grinder in his hands again. “Are you  _trying_  to make sure I never leave?” he asks with a groan, lifting his head up just a little to see Tyler’s grin better. “Seriously, dude, pretty sure I won’t be able to feel my face soon.”

This prompts Tyler to break into a horribly off-key rendition of the song, his shoulders shimmying; Dylan tries (and fails) not to find it endearing. He laughs instead of doing anything drastic, like kiss him just to shut him up—although that would take a lot of energy Dylan isn’t sure he’s capable of right now—and Tyler hams it up a bit more, clutching at Dylan’s knee, body half-turned to serenade him, his whole body wriggling in time.

Dylan rolls his eyes and shakes him off, and Tyler laugh-sings the last bit of the chorus as he turns back to the task at hand. “You out then?” he asks when he’s done singing, unfazed, practiced hands already breaking up weed and tucking it into the teeth of his grinder.

“I didn’t say  _that_.” He nudges his foot into Tyler’s side, just because, before he drops his head back and looks back up at the ceiling. They’re back to comfortable silence as Tyler twists the grinder and packs the bowl, and Dylan stretches his body out, enjoying the feel of his muscles pulling, then relaxes with a heavy sigh, letting his eyes droop shut. He’s ready to melt into this couch, just—stay right here, like this, forever.

He hears the sounds of Tyler taking his hit, and then something nudges him in the stomach a couple of times before Tyler just—sets his hand down, the pipe in a loose grip in his fingers. Dylan wants to freak out, maybe, because that’s dangerously close to his waistband, which is even more dangerously close to his  _dick_. It’s been hard enough telling himself not to kiss Tyler willy nilly all night, much less keep his dick calm. But he can’t seem to drum up the reaction; his heart is still beating slow and steady. He can almost hear it, if he strains a little.

Then he makes a face, because he knows he should be reaching for the bowl, maybe even sitting up a little so he doesn’t like, choke and die, but…he  _really_ doesn’t want to move. He knows it would be easy, relatively speaking, but like. Moving sounds so exhausting right now. His arms are made of lead. His entire  _body_ is made of lead. He  _is_  lead.

After another long, quiet moment, he lets out a heavy sigh. “So here’s the thing,” he says, and Tyler hums in acknowledgement. “I really want that hit,” he says, frowning when he hears Tyler chuckle, “but I’m too lazy for it.” He doesn’t know why Tyler is snickering quietly above him; this is a Serious Dilemma. Then, the words spilling out before he can decide whether it’s a bad idea, he says, “Do it for me.”

Tyler laughs brightly at that, but it’s quickly followed by a shrug and a “Sure dude, no problem.”

“Yes,” Dylan hisses, clenching his fists briefly before letting them dangle again. “Hit me.”

With another laugh, Tyler lifts his hand from Dylan’s stomach. There’s suddenly a lot of squirming happening down there, and Dylan is just about to open his eyes and ask what’s happening when his leg slips off Tyler's lap and then Tyler  _leaps on top of him_.

“The fuck—” His eyes spring open just in time to watch Tyler park himself right in Dylan’s lap, knees digging into Dylan’s sides to fit on the couch. His hands are on Dylan’s chest, one wrapped around the bowl, the other clenching the lighter. Dylan doesn’t know if he’s having difficulty breathing because of Tyler’s weight or because of the way he wriggles a bit, getting comfortable in the cradle of Dylan’s hips.

“This is cool, right?” Tyler asks, just a shy too late.

He manages to squeak out a “yeah” even though he doesn’t really know what’s happening, clenching his hands around the arm of the couch. Tyler is just—so close to Dylan’s dick right now. He wonders if Tyler can feel the way his heart is suddenly pounding.

“I thought it might be easier,” he says, waggling his eyebrows as he sits back, bringing the pipe back up to his mouth. Dylan is…confused, but doesn’t complain, as Tyler lights and inhales.

Then Tyler starts leaning forward again, mouth slightly open, smoke trailing out. Dylan’s eyes widen, but he feels completely helpless to do anything else as Tyler closes the distance between them, completely too trusting of Tyler to question what he’s about to do. It isn’t until Tyler’s face is a few inches away that it really hits him—they’re about to  _shotgun_. When he’d said “do it for me” he hadn’t really meant  _this_ , but like—he’s not gonna be  _mad_  if Tyler wants to put their mouths together. He’s suddenly very glad that his mouth’s default position is “slightly open” because he’s not sure he would have remembered to do it.

Tyler’s lips press against his, soft and warm like the rest of him, and Dylan gasps on reflex. It pulls some of the smoke into his mouth, sharp and sweet, but he’s pretty sure most of it just spills out between them, so he purses his lips a bit more, making a better seal, and inhales more purposefully, breathing in as Tyler breathes out. He doesn’t move anything else, not even to close his eyes, afraid to disturb whatever’s happening here.

After what seems like way too long, but was probably no more than a second or two, Tyler’s mouth is empty of smoke. Dylan stops breathing completely as Tyler pulls back slowly, blinking his eyes open. He doesn’t go far—Dylan can still count every one of his eyelashes.

“Dude,” Dylan breathes, the faintest puff of smoke floating between them.

Tyler swallows, the sound loud and close. Dylan can feel the puff of his breath as he replies, “Dude.”

They’re suspended like that for a long moment. Dylan’s heart is still pounding in his chest, they’re both still breathing, the music is still playing, but neither of them move. Tyler looks a bit lost, uncertain how to proceed, and Dylan feels the same. He’s been trying his hardest not to kiss Tyler all night, but now he’s gone and mashed their mouths together anyway.

But then, well—it’s not like this is the first time he’s thought  _fuck it_  before making a decision.

He brings his arms down from above his head; his arms tingle a bit as he cups one hand behind Tyler’s head, the other settling on his jaw, keeping him close. Tyler’s eyebrows pop up in surprise, but he doesn’t resist when Dylan’s guides him back down, and the last thing Dylan sees is the curve of Tyler’s smile.

Then they’re too busy kissing, really, for Dylan to pay much attention to anything.

He’s too focused on the way Tyler’s mouth works against his, the wet slide of his mouth and the heat of his tongue as it sweeps inside his mouth, the blunt edges of Tyler’s teeth on his tongue when he returns the favor.

He makes a noise he’s not entirely proud of when Tyler pulls back. It’s not for long, though; Tyler heaves in a breath and then comes back with more enthusiasm, his entire body pressing against Dylan’s with the force of it. It reminds him that Tyler is way too close to his dick, but Tyler seems oblivious, simply content to sprawl across Dylan and kiss the living daylights out of him for a while.

Honestly, Dylan is totally cool with it. Making out while stoned is probably one of his favorite things to do, and Tyler is  _good_  at it, taking his time, keeping it mostly soft but deep. Every once in a while he’ll change it up a little, come in more forcefully or just let Dylan take the lead for a bit.

Everything feels slowed down and amplified, his body buzzing everywhere Tyler’s is touching. One of Tyler’s hands keeps moving, trailing up and down Dylan’s side, while he uses the other to grip Dylan’s neck, his thumb on Dylan’s pulse. He shifts his legs, stretching out one, and then the other, until he’s basically straddling Dylan’s leg, all of his weight pressing Dylan into the couch. Dylan’s turned on, for sure, but doesn’t feel any rush to do something about it. It’s left to simmer, low in his gut, as their mouths keep moving together.

But then Tyler’s wandering hand slips under his shirt, warm pressure smoothing up his flank, against  _bare skin_ , and Dylan helplessly arches into the touch, inhaling sharply through his nose. His leg draws up on instinct, grinding up between Tyler’s legs, making Dylan abruptly aware of two things: one, he really likes the noise Tyler made when he did that, and two, Tyler’s dick is hard.

Dylan pulls back, blinking up at Tyler. His mouth feels full and wet and swollen, and Tyler’s doesn’t look much better. They’re both panting, the sound of it loud, pressing against Dylan’s eardrums. Then, slowly, his eyes on Tyler’s face, he moves one of his hands, slipping it between their bodies, letting it trail down Tyler’s body to his hip. Tyler’s eyelashes flutter a little, but he keeps his eyes on Dylan’s, lip between his teeth. Dylan shifts his leg again, using his grip on Tyler’s hip to grind him into it, and Tyler makes a different noise, a  _better_ one.

“Fuck—” Dylan manages to get out, before Tyler’s mouth is on his again.

It’s like flipping a switch. Their kissing takes on an edge of desperation, not helped as their breathing gets heavier and heavier. Tyler keeps rolling his body against Dylan’s, rocking against his thigh, and Dylan is suddenly—so fucking aware of his dick, of how good it feels when Tyler shifts his weight, his thigh pressing against it, so he starts rocking his hips, chasing the feeling.

When they finally manage to get their hips to move in tandem, he practically sees stars behind his eyes, or maybe that’s just because he’s squeezing them shut so tightly, but either way, he can’t—

He breaks away from Tyler’s mouth with a moan, feels it get wrenched out of his throat even though he’s usually not all that vocal during sex. He lets his head tip to the side, just panting, needing to breathe, and Tyler seems to get it, settles for kissing his way across Dylan’s cheek, down his neck.

This is probably a bad idea, Dylan thinks wildly. This is—crossing some major lines, in any kind of relationship they’ve established by now. This will change everything, has already changed everything, because Dylan isn’t sure that he’s going to be able to stop himself from kissing Tyler anymore, now that he knows what it feels like—he’s doomed himself, really, because he’s probably not even going to be able to look Tyler in the  _eye_  if he has to keep delivering to him after this—

Dylan is wrenched from his thoughts when Tyler  _licks_  Dylan, from his collarbone to his ear like some big  _puppy_ , and Dylan half-groans, half-laughs. “Ser-seriously?” he manages to get out in between pants, still maybe laughing a little, and Tyler just nuzzles his nose into the hair behind Dylan’s ear, lapping his tongue out to brush over Dylan’s earlobe. Dylan wants to roll his eyes, but they’re still kind of mindlessly humping each other like dogs, so Dylan supposes the comparison is apt.

“Where’d you go?” Tyler asks, his voice close and breathless, and Dylan starts shaking his head immediately.

“Nowhere, s’cool,” he says, turning his head back to kiss Tyler again.

Tyler keeps them cheek to cheek though, slows down the movements of their bodies. “C’mon, man,” he urges, pressing his fingers into Dylan’s side. “We’re friends, right?”

And that’s the catch, really; Dylan doesn’t know  _what_  to call them. He’s never had a friend that made him feel like Tyler did. “Are we?” he says, and if his voice is maybe a bit breathless, well—they were just grinding hot n’ heavy not ten seconds ago.

Tyler’s hand squeezes at his side, and then he slides his arm around Dylan’s back, effectively trapping him in the closest, horniest hug Dylan’s ever been a part of. He doesn’t say anything, though, and it’s—Dylan needs him to say something right now.

Dylan swallows. “I really like you,” he admits, even though he hadn’t been planning on it; the words just kind of fall out. “Like, a lot.” It helps that they’re not looking each other in the eye; Dylan doesn’t think he could do this right now if they were.

That makes Tyler squeeze even closer, like he’s trying to meld their two bodies into one entity. “You’re my favorite person in the whole world,” he says to Dylan’s neck, and it’s not an answer, not really, but it sounds a bit like it had a week ago, earnest and sincere, but also maybe a bit lost, a bit desperate. And this time, Dylan isn’t holding food in his hands. He’s holding  _Tyler_.

His insides feel a bit like they’re exploding, and he wonders if he’s blushing, and he really  _really_  wants to kiss Tyler again.

So he does.

Tyler responds enthusiastically, his hips already starting to rock against Dylan’s again. They should probably talk a bit more, about—everything, really, but Dylan figures it can wait. Tyler’s boner is pressing hot and insistent against his, is the thing, and Dylan would much rather deal with that first.

They fall into a rhythm again, and Dylan is more than content to just keep rutting against Tyler like this, because he’s pretty sure he could come in like, two minutes. Tyler seems to have other ideas, his hand coming around to Dylan’s front and dancing around his waistband, like he wants to ask permission but isn’t quite sure how.

“Yeah,” Dylan says when they break apart for a breath, rocking his hips for emphasis; he’s not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to, but doesn’t really care. Anything. Tyler grins again, then makes quick work of Dylan’s fly, his hand immediately dipping inside his boxers, and—

“Oh my god,” Dylan hisses, when Tyler’s hand wraps around him.

He can’t really focus on anything besides the way Tyler’s hand strokes him, firm and quick. All of that heat that had been left to simmer earlier feels like it’s boiling over, every nerve ending attached to his dick on overdrive now that attention is actually being paid to it. He tries to keep his lips moving at least, but ends up mostly panting into Tyler’s mouth while his hips buck into Tyler’s hand.

Tyler takes pity on him, lets him drop his head back and just try to keep breathing, as he kisses down Dylan’s jawline. He nips at Dylan’s earlobe, his breath hot on the shell of Dylan’s ear, making him shudder, just a bit. His hand slows, but thankfully doesn’t stop, as he kisses his way down Dylan’s neck again, nipping at his collarbone before moving further down.

Dylan’s shirt is rucked up nearly to his armpits by now, and he feels oddly on display, but then Tyler gets his mouth on one of Dylan’s nipples, and he gasps sharply, fingers clenching in Tyler’s hair when he scrapes his teeth over it. He grins up at Dylan as he drags his stubbled chin across Dylan’s chest, and Dylan just watches helplessly before Tyler gives the same treatment to the other one.

A weirdly broken-sounding noise comes out of him then, as the touch sends fire shooting through him, like all his nerve-endings have been rewired straight to his dick, and it’s—he’s never really had this happen before, his nipples are just his nipples, pretty useless, all considering. He doesn’t know if it’s some latent thing, or the weed, or maybe just Tyler. He hasn’t stopped moving his hand; Dylan can’t stop moving his hips.

But then Tyler starts heading south, shifting his body off Dylan’s as he goes, and that’s just—

“No,” he gasps, the hand that had been on Tyler’s hip clutching at his shirt, dragging it halfway up his body as his weight lifts away, “no, come back—” If he’s tired of Dylan’s chest, Dylan can totally keep Tyler’s mouth occupied with his. Or try, at least. He can’t promise it’ll be any good, but it’ll at least be over quickly, and then Dylan can focus on other things. Like _Tyler’s_ dick.

Tyler looks up from where he’s kissing Dylan’s stomach, eyebrow quirked and dimple peeking. “Are you seriously trying to stop me from blowing you right now?”

All of the breath just—whooshes out of him. His dick twitches in Tyler’s hand. “You wanna blow me?” he asks stupidly, because that’s what Tyler _just said_ , isn’t it?

Tyler just laughs, moving even further down, kissing a mole near Dylan’s hipbone. “Hell yeah, dude.”

Then what the hell is Dylan stopping him for? He doesn’t like to turn down blow jobs on like, principle, but one from _Tyler_? Sign him the fuck up.

“Okay, yeah, cool, that’s—fine, I guess,” Dylan babbles shakily, his stomach twitching under Tyler’s mouth when he kisses near Dylan’s belly button.

“Awesome,” Tyler says, kissing his way down Dylan’s happy trail.

Dylan can’t watch. He casts his eyes back up to the ceiling, because if he watches, he’s gonna—it’s not gonna end well.

He can’t watch as Tyler pulls his boxers down to expose his dick, he can’t watch Tyler breathe across his dick as he shifts into a better position, can’t watch the way his dick twitches in response. He can’t watch as Tyler uses his grip around the base of Dylan’s dick to aim it upward, and definitely, _definitely_ can’t watch as Tyler sinks his mouth down, hot and wet and so fucking good—

A strangled noise tears itself out of Dylan’s mouth when Tyler sucks; he smacks his hand down, gripping the edge of the couch as his entire body pulls taut, trying really really hard not to buck into Tyler’s mouth. Tyler draws his mouth up, sucking hard around the tip, tongue digging into the slit, hand still working him slowly near the base. As he sinks down again, Dylan shudders out an exhale.

And he can’t help himself, really, looks down without even meaning to. Tyler has perched himself between Dylan’s legs, body cramped at the end of the couch. He looks—fucking gorgeous, his hair a mess from Dylan’s hands, eyelashes like smudged charcoal across his cheeks, his lips so fucking red around Dylan’s dick. _Around Dylan’s dick._

Dylan tosses his arm over his face, too overwhelmed. Another strangled noise claws its way out of him as he tries to keep his hips steady so he doesn’t do something awful like choke Tyler in the middle of the best blow job of his life.

Tyler pulls off Dylan’s dick with an obscene noise, his hand continuing to jack him slowly, spit easing the way. Dylan whimpers. “You can be loud, you know,” he says easily, like he doesn’t have Dylan’s dick in his hand and sound like he just had it down his throat.

“Ngh,” he replies.

Tyler rewards him by speeding up his hand. “Don’t hold back,” he says, sounding like he’s smiling, and Dylan’s not sure what to make of that before Tyler sucks him in again and his mind goes a bit blank beyond _yes good more more more_.

After that, each ragged breath Dylan draws in turns into a short moan, the noises sticking in his throat at first before getting louder and louder, unable to stop now that he’s started. He can’t stop his hips stuttering up into Tyler’s mouth, either, but Tyler seems to take it in stride, almost encouraging it with the way he speeds his hand up, and Dylan just—lets himself go, after that, stops thinking and focuses on just feeling.

His body thrums with the pleasure building under his skin; it keeps folding back in on itself, rising higher and higher each time. He feels trapped between wanting more, wanting all of it, and backing off because it almost feels too good, too much.

Then Tyler focuses on the head and sucks, _hard_ , his hand working tight over the rest of Dylan’s shaft, and that does it, he’s done, K.O.

His entire body locks up, eyes squeezed so tight he sees stars, mouth open in a silent shout, as his orgasm hits. The feeling crashes through him, his heart thudding heavily in his chest, his body weightless. It almost hurts, feeling this good.

And then he’s crossed the threshold, and he moans as his body slumps. He rides out the smaller waves of pleasure that keep coming, still spurting into Tyler’s mouth, until finally, finally, he’s spent; when Tyler swallows around him, Dylan whimpers and arches into it, the feeling just on the right side of the line between pleasure and pain.

Tyler pulls his mouth away after that, but keeps his hand loosely curled around his dick. Dylan feels a bit overwhelmed, but in the best way, as Tyler strokes him, gently, the slow strokes only getting slower and slower as the aftershocks die down. Eventually his hand stops moving, but he doesn’t let go, instead just kind of…holding it, and maybe it should be weird, but Dylan likes the warm weight of it, likes the way it almost grounds his as he lays there and pants.

His body settles into itself again. He focuses on the beating of his heart, the way he can feel the same thud in his chest and his fingertips. The weightlessness turns into a deep-seated heaviness, while his entire body buzzes. “Jesus Christ,” he manages to croak out.

Tyler chuckles, finally letting go of his dick. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, nodding his head the best he can while it’s still under his arm. Tyler chuckles again, then pulls Dylan’s boxers up over his softening dick, patting it as if to say, “good job,” which makes Dylan giggle, still a bit strung out.

Tyler moves then, crawling back up over Dylan’s body, straddling his waist again. He doesn’t move his arm from his face, so it’s a bit of a surprise when Tyler kisses him, slow and sweet, Dylan still a bit too out of it to do much more than purse his lips. Dylan knows he should be doing something about Tyler’s boner, but he just—needs a second.

After about five seconds, Tyler nudges at his arm, and it’s with a great, put-upon sigh that he moves it, opening his eyes. He blinks up at the ceiling a few times to adjust to the light, then looks at Tyler.

“Jesus Christ,” he croaks again, because Tyler has blown his mind again.

Dylan’s not sure when it happened, but Tyler’s dick is definitely out, fisted in the same hand Tyler had been using on Dylan. He’s working it up and down his shaft slowly, the muscles in his arm flexing with every pull; Dylan honestly can’t see much of the dick itself, but it looks thick, the head kind of a dusky pink, a blurt of precome shining at the tip. Dylan wants to put his mouth on it.

“My eyes are up here,” Tyler jokes, but Dylan shakes his head minutely, eyes locked on Tyler’s hand on Tyler’s dick.

“I’m gonna give you the best blow job of your goddamn life.” Tyler gasps, his hand speeding up on his dick. “Tomorrow,” he amends, because they’re already here and like this and Dylan can admit that he’s too lazy to change that right now. But tomorrow—oh, tomorrow, Tyler isn’t gonna know what fucking _hits_ him.

“Promise?” Tyler says, his voice catching a little, his hand speeding up even more. Dylan manages to tear his eyes away from Tyler’s dick, only to see that Tyler’s eyes are focused on Dylan’s mouth. He licks his lips, and Tyler whines.

“Promise.” Tyler’s face breaks a little, his own (red, fucked out) mouth dropping open, eyebrows drawing together, and it makes a pleased little thrill run up Dylan’s spine. He settles his hand on Tyler’s knee, hopefully grounding him a little, as he delivers the next blow. (Heh. _Blow._ ) “You can fuck my mouth, it’ll be great.”

It might actually turn out horribly, because as much as Dylan likes to give head, his gag reflex is kind of shit. Tyler doesn’t know that, though, and he seems to like the idea so much that Dylan is willing to suffer any consequences that might come of it.

“Fucking— _shit_ —” Tyler slumps forward, barely catching himself with his free hand on Dylan’s chest. The hand on his dick a blur, and he starts rocking his hips into it, eyes still on Dylan’s face. He looks a bit dazed, mouth hanging open, unable to settle his gaze on any particular feature of Dylan’s for too long. When Dylan licks his lips again, Tyler’s eyes snap to focus, and then he groans like he’s been punched in the gut before swooping down, capturing Dylan’s mouth with his.

The kiss is uncoordinated and sloppy, mostly just Tyler panting into his mouth, but it seems to be exactly what Tyler needs, because not long after he groans again, his body suddenly going still. A few drops of something warm and wet hit Dylan’s stomach—Tyler’s _come_ , fuck—as he kisses him through it, even though Tyler’s mouth is mostly lax against his, swallowing the noises Tyler makes as his body jerks sporadically.

Eventually it slows, his body stilling over Dylan’s, and Dylan presses their foreheads together, takes a good look at him. Tyler’s eyes are closed, and he’s still panting, still coming down, so Dylan closes his too, waiting, absent-mindedly brushing his nose against Tyler’s. He presses a few kisses to Tyler’s slack mouth, Tyler dazedly returning them.

“Fuck,” Tyler says eventually, and that’s all the warning Dylan gets before he collapses on top of Dylan with a huge sigh. Dylan groans half-heartedly, bringing his arm up to wrap around Tyler’s waist—for stability—as Tyler stretches his legs back out again, tucking his face into Dylan’s neck.

It’s quiet between them, nothing but the sound of their breathing and the music still playing from Tyler’s computer. Dylan thinks he should maybe say something, but then Tyler moves, taking one of his hands out from in between them. He wipes it on the side of the couch, which makes Dylan want to laugh, but he doesn’t quite have the energy. Then Tyler reaches over his head to find Dylan’s hand. Dylan threads their fingers together, and Tyler sighs, his body relaxing completely over Dylan’s.

And, well, that’s good enough for him.

*

Dylan snorts awake when something wet takes a long, messy swipe up his cheek.

“Mmpf,” he says, scrunching his nose and batting at it blindly, half-expecting to encounter fur or a wet nose. He frowns when he hits dead air. He hears a giggle, and opens his eyes to see Tyler smiling down at him.

“Did you just lick me?” he asks, his voice sleep-crackly and slow. Tyler’s smile widens, his eyes crinkling into slits, and that’s all the confirmation Dylan needs. He’s not really surprised; Tyler seems more dog than human sometimes. He groans anyway, turning his head away. “Time s’it,” he mumbles, looking around the apartment for some kind of clue. The lamp is still on from last night, and Tyler keeps his curtains drawn, but there’s enough light trying to shine through them that Dylan would bet it’s closer to noon than not.

Tyler reaches for his computer on the coffee table, even though his body is still mostly covering Dylan’s and his fist is still planted by Dylan’s head; Dylan instinctively clutches at his waist so he doesn’t fall. He watches, still feeling sleepy and slow, while Tyler wakes up his computer. “11:52,” he announces.

Dylan nods and closes his eyes again, grunting when Tyler shifts back over him.

“Do you have to be somewhere?” Tyler asks, his fingers drumming on Dylan’s chest.

Dylan shakes his head. “Nah,” he yawns; he’s got the day off, and they’ll survive if he doesn’t turn in the money from Tyler’s order until he goes back in tomorrow. His back feels a bit stiff—from a night (morning?) on the couch in the same position, under someone else, probably—so he stretches a little. He decides he likes the way Tyler feels on top of him like this.

He smacks his lips as he sighs, ready to go back to sleep, but Tyler pokes him in the nose. He wrinkles it up, frowning, as Tyler says, “I have to go walk the dogs.”

When he peeks one open, Tyler is giving him an expectant look. Dylan’s pretty sure that if he wanted, he could tell Tyler to fuck off, walk the dogs by himself while Dylan went back to sleep. He doesn’t really want to do that, though.

Something to that effect must read on his face, because Tyler grins again. Then he moves, swinging his leg over Dylan’s body to land on the floor, nearly kneeing Dylan in the stomach with the other when he loses his balance a little as he tries to stand. He pats Dylan’s cheek affectionately before he stands completely. Then he stretches, lifting his arms over his head, until his back cracks. Dylan’s attention is drawn to the way his shirt rides up over his stomach, showing a strip of tan skin and his dark happy trail. It makes something warm curl in Dylan’s belly, a tug of want that almost makes him reach out and touch. Then he notes the suspicious white stains Tyler has on his shirt _and_ his shorts, and just snorts. When Tyler raises an eyebrow, arms still above his head, Dylan gestures vaguely.

Tyler looks down, then snorts, letting his arms drop into a shrug. “Oops.” Then he looks over Dylan’s body, the look on his face a bit lecherous, and Dylan is suddenly aware of how his shirt is still rucked up from last night, his pants still undone. He stretches again, arching his back a bit more than necessary just to see the way Tyler’s mouth drops a little; then, with a smirk, he tugs his shirt back down. Tyler’s face falls comically.

“Where are the dogs?” Dylan asks pointedly, trying not to laugh, as he buttons his pants.

Tyler blinks, eyes on Dylan’s hands zipping up his fly. “My room,” he says, a few beats too late. He blinks again, then tears his eyes away, looking back at Dylan’s face. It makes a pleased feeling unfurl in Dylan’s chest to see Tyler look like that, like he’s overwhelmed by how much he _wants_ Dylan. But the unrestrained adoration also makes him a bit self-conscious, and he can feel the heat in his cheeks about it. He almost feels more exposed now than he did before.

And then Tyler’s face changes a little, goes softer, a hint of a smile and a bit of disbelief, unbearably fond, and Dylan feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest. Like if he looks down he’ll see it literally grow out of his chest, like in that Grinch movie his mom makes him watch every year. And it’s just—big, the way he feels, the way Tyler is looking at him like he might be feeling the same type of way.

Tyler starts tipping forward, his eyes still soft, and it’s suddenly way too much.

He sits up, swinging his leg down, moving so fast he gets a headrush. Tyler freezes, half-bent over, and there’s a beat of awkward silence before Dylan blurts, “I gotta pee.”

Not really; he mostly just has to go freak out by himself for a minute. Tyler gives him a confused look, straightening, but doesn’t question him. When Dylan pushes himself to his feet, Tyler just nods, moving out of the way. “I’m gonna change,” he says, pointing vaguely for his bedroom door, and Dylan nods, already halfway to the bathroom.

By the time he gets there, though, he’s shaking his head at himself. He didn’t know why he was freaking out. It was just—it looked like Tyler was about to kiss him, and—

He flicks the light on in the bathroom and immediately comes to face with himself. He looks—kind of ridiculous. His hair is stuck up in all different directions, one side of it weirdly flat; his eyes are puffy, sleepy, and he can see a few crusties in the corners. Underneath his own measly two days’ worth of stubble, his chin is red from rubbing against Tyler’s so much last night, and there’s something dry and crusty trailing out of the corner of his mouth, meaning he had drooled at some point the night before.

He’s surprised Tyler even _wanted_ to kiss him like this.

Tyler _still wanted to kiss him._

That was good, right? Dylan definitely still wanted to kiss Tyler. He’d just been surprised, really, that was all. Gut reaction after too long practicing _not_ kissing Tyler, or something, too long thinking Tyler didn’t feel the same.

He supposes that’s what _really_ surprised him. Most of the time the people he hooked up with while not entirely sober didn’t really feel the same the next day, and he could understand that; heat of the moment, all that. He could even understand still wanting to bone after the fact, but not really wanting much else. But the way Tyler had been looking at him, it wasn’t just wanting to get off again. He’d looked at Dylan like—like Dylan was Tyler’s favorite person in the whole world. Like he wanted to kiss him just because, not as a means to an end, or a convenient place for his mouth to be for a minute. Like he was just—overwhelmed by how much he liked Dylan. (Dylan can relate. Or maybe he’s projecting.)

And really, that’s probably why he got so freaked out back there, because he just likes Tyler, so much, and can hardly believe Tyler might feel any kind of similar way. Things like this just—don’t happen to Dylan. It’s never been this easy, this good, and it’s a bit terrifying.

He hopes he hasn’t screwed it up.

He takes a moment to compose himself. He runs the tap for a bit, splashing his face and wetting his hair. He spots a half-used tube of toothpaste and figures it can’t hurt; he brushes his teeth with his finger and uses the other hand to attempt making some kind of order out of his hair. By the time he spits, he decides his hair is a lost cause, hoping Tyler will let him borrow a hat.

He looks at himself in the mirror one last time, reminding himself that Tyler wanted him, _still_ wants him—hopefully, if Dylan didn’t just fuck everything up. He just has to go back out there and say he’s sorry, but totally better now. One hundred percent A-OK, with the kissing and the flirting and—whatever else Tyler wants, really. He’ll take whatever Tyler gives him, at this point.

When he makes it back out to the living room, Tyler is waiting for him on the couch. He’s changed into a blue plaid shirt and jeans, a bright green snapback keeping the hair out of his face. He looks…almost sad, sitting with his hands in his lap, biting his lip. “Hey,” Dylan says, and he looks up.

“Hey dude,” he says, but not with any of his usual enthusiasm. Dylan decides he really doesn’t like that, and is about ready to explain that he was just—freaking out, a little bit, but Tyler starts talking before him, looking back down at his hands. “I just wanted to say, like, sorry if I—crossed a line, or something, just now?” Dylan opens his mouth, ready to protest, but Tyler isn’t finished. “Like, because we were really baked last night, you know? And I know we like—” He gestures vaguely. (Dylan understands.) “But like, shit can get carried away, so if you don’t feel the same way, if I was—reading the signs wrong, or whatever, that’s totally cool, I get it—”

“Tyler,” Dylan tries, but he keeps talking.

“Because even though I really, really liked last night, and really, really like kissing you—” Dylan’s heart flutters a little. “—I’m totally cool with just being buds, you know?” He finally looks up at Dylan with a shrug, a plaintive look on his face. “I just want you to want keep coming around, so I just want to do… whatever… will make you do that.”

Dylan doesn’t even try to hold back the fond smile that breaks out across his face. “C’mere,” he says, gesturing with his hand, and Tyler stands up and walks over, looking like a guilty puppy. He stops a respectable distance away, but Dylan grabs his hand and drags him into a hug.

Tyler just stands there for a second, and Dylan has to squeeze insistently before Tyler brings his arms up and hugs him back. “There we go,” he says, squeezing even harder, as Tyler loops his arms around Dylan’s body and tucks his face into Dylan’s neck, sagging into him. They stand like that for a few long, quiet moments, just breathing in each other in. Tyler smells like fresh laundry, deodorant and stale sweat, a little bit of weed. (Dylan really hopes he doesn’t smell awful.)

“First off,” Dylan starts without letting him go; Tyler starts to pull back, but Dylan fists his hands in the back of his shirt, keeping him close. He can’t—he doesn’t think he can look Tyler in the eye for this. “You absolutely did not cross any lines I didn’t want you to, okay?” The tension that had been lingering in Tyler’s body leaves him, and he clings more tightly to Dylan. Dylan clings just as hard back. “I just—freaked out, a little, because—I dunno, I was surprised, I guess.” He tries to make it a joke, laugh it off, but Tyler doesn’t join in. Dylan swallows, suddenly starting to feel a bit claustrophobic in Tyler’s arms, and tries to get out the rest of his bit in a rush. “But I really like you and really like us, I mean, it’s good, right,” and Tyler nods into his shoulder, “but I don’t—I haven’t really ever liked someone like I like you, and that just kinda freaks me out, you know? Especially because—I mean, it seems like you feel the same way, that’s what I’m gathering, at least, and—”

“I wanna kiss you like, all the time,” Tyler says suddenly, stopping Dylan’s babbling. He clenches the fabric of Tyler’s shirt even tighter in his hands, while Tyler’s hands start a calming sweep up and down his back. “You’re the funniest dude I know, and pretty hot,” one hand sweeps lower, a near-grope of Dylan’s ass, making Dylan smile, “and I’d really like to like, take you on a date or something.” And then Tyler pulls back, just enough to look Dylan in the eye. Dylan feels his cheeks go hot under the earnest admiration written all over Tyler’s face, but the fluttering in his stomach doesn’t make him want to run away this time. “You’re my favorite person in the whole world.”

“You mentioned that, yeah,” Dylan says, a grin tugging at his mouth.

“So…can I kiss you now?” Tyler’s grinning, like he already knows the answer.

“Whenever you want, man,” Dylan says, already leaning in.

Tyler’s mouth is soft and good and everything right in the world. Dylan can feel the curl of Tyler’s mouth, too busy smiling to actually kiss him properly. It’s beautiful. Dylan might be in love.

After a few moments, Tyler pulls back, already grinning widely. Dylan gives him a beatific smile, and then Tyler presses in again, pecking him once, twice, before pulling back, fingers going to Dylan’s elbows. “Let’s take the dogs out,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. He squeezes Dylan’s arms, then pulls away completely. “Walk time!” he yells as he heads for the door, and there are two identical thumps from the bedroom. Both dogs come tearing out, tails wagging, mouths open; Roxy starts jumping up on Tyler when she gets close.

Tyler just laughs, managing to snag the leashes on both of their collars in short time. When he straightens, he offers Chica’s leash to Dylan. “Walk time,” he says, with another waggle of his eyebrows. The phrase makes Roxy jump up again, licking for his face. Dylan laughs as he takes the couple steps to take the leash from a sputtering Tyler.

Once Tyler has settled her down a bit, rubbing behind her ears, he grins up at Dylan, and Dylan gives in to the urge to kiss him again. The step he has to take to close the distance gives him more momentum than he was expecting, so he blames that for why it devolves so quickly from the quick peck he’d been planning into something thick and slow, syrupy sweet. It takes the dogs pawing at their shins for them to break apart, laughing. Dylan can’t help but duck in for one last quick peck, and it makes Tyler’s smile brighten even more.

Then he frowns. “Do I have my keys?” He pats at his pockets, then when he realizes they aren’t there, starts looking for them. His gaze lands on the couch first, while Dylan immediately looks to the counter, where he remembers Tyler putting them after they’d gotten back from walking the dogs last night. He spies them, sitting there innocuously, while Tyler starts frowning, bending over to look more closely at the couch.

With a shake of his head, Dylan heads over to get them, dragging Chica along with him. Tyler makes an excited noise. “Dude, look what I found in the couch!”

Dylan pauses to look back, and Chica blunders into his knee. Tyler’s holding up the pipe they’d been using last night; there’s a relatively small burnt spot on the side of an otherwise green bowl.

Tyler cocks his head to the side, looking down at the pipe. “Wake n’ bake?” he says, like he’s not sure what to do with the thing in his hands.

Dylan narrows his eyes, looking between the bowl, Tyler’s face, and the dogs. Roxy’s gone from scratching at their legs to scratching at the door; Chica just looks up at him with pitiful eyes.

“When we get back,” he says decisively as he finds Tyler’s eyes again, and Tyler nods.

“Okay,” he says, setting the pipe down on the arm of the couch as Dylan turns back to getting the keys. “When we get back.”

Tyler waits until Dylan has walked back up to the door, hand on the knob and a dumb-looking grin on his face that absolutely does _not_ make Dylan’s face light up. He gives in a little bit to the urge to kiss Tyler, smacking him on the cheek as he opens the door, shepherding the dogs out. Tyler’s face lights up even more, and yes, okay, Dylan is definitely grinning too hard, but.

He’s just _really_ happy, okay? He’s about to go for a walk with a guy he likes who _likes him back_ and then they’re probably gonna spend the day lazy and stoned and probably make out some more—oh man, Dylan owes Tyler a blowjob, too, fuck yes—and there will be dogs and probably food and good tunes, and—

When they get outside, Tyler takes his hand. When he looks over, he finds Tyler grinning back, his dimples out and eyes crinkled. Something warm and bright settles in Dylan's chest as he threads their fingers together, knocking their joined hands into Tyler’s hip before looking ahead again.

It’s gonna be a good day.


End file.
